


World on Fire

by StAnni



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 17:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21396286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/StAnni
Summary: When she was nineteen she stood on the withering balcony of a building that is no longer there.  Bruce had left without a word – disappeared into the ozone, shooting further and further into a future that did not include her.
Relationships: Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	World on Fire

While he is telling her about the contact, the ins and outs of her involvement, all along the periphery of what she is allowed to know, he keeps his eyes on hers, unwavering. It feels petty, and it’s in her head, she knows. He doesn’t care enough to be petty.  
He hands her a burner phone, slipping his gloved hand from his pocket and the phone is cold in her bare hand. “The number on it is for Gordon.” He says, nodding to the phone. “If you need it.” She won’t. She doesn’t trust phones and she doesn’t like to have one on her – just another way for Gordon to keep tabs on her. But she pushes it into her own jacket pocket, not wanting to toss it into the river in front of Bruce. “He’s going to want it back.” Bruce says, as if reading her mind.  
“ So what’s your skin in this?” She asks sounding purposefully disinterested.  
“Yours.” He answers plainly and it lands like a blow to her chest.  
*  
Two years ago it didn’t take long to shove what little she actually owned in his apartment into the ratty backpack she’s had all her life. And he watched, at the door, in the settling dust of the ruins.  
“Is this what you want?” He had asked with doubt, even and knowing, as if she had missed some hidden meaning that should be obvious. Nothing was obvious though, what she knew was tainted history and her anger had risen defensively. “It’s what I want.”  
It wasn’t. But ripcords were all she had, and still has.  
He didn’t follow her out. He didn’t grab her arm, tried to reason with her. Had it been eight years ago, nine, there would have been more of a fight and she had lulled herself in that reasoning – anticipating the pull, the tether. It didn’t happen. He let her go.  
*  
Things that used to matter and that doesn’t matter anymore, collect at the lowest point of her soul. She feels a spreading emptiness blooming over hear heart and evens her tone when she replies to him now, honestly “I don’t believe you.”  
There is a beat and the empty heaviness of the presence settles in her heart when he sighs and glances away. The new, sleeker version of him – the politician’s demigod, looks back. “What does it matter anyway, Selina, you’ll get paid.” 

*

Time passed after he returned to Gotham. It may have been weeks, but felt like years. She finally went to his new apartment and Alfred was surprised to see her – which was what it was, but didn’t make it hurt any less. “He’s at the office.” Alfred said when she stepped inside.  
Wayne Enterprises, having risen like a Phoenix from the ashes, was a shadowing entity once again. The changes, throughout Gotham, were felt – especially in the Narrows, where she still had a spot in one of the decrepit, condemned buildings. 

“I’ll wait.” She said and Alfred, supressing irritation, gave her a thin smile, a nod, and then disappeared behind one of the slick white corners clearly with the intention of watching her on one of the, she assumed, dozens of hidden camera’s scattered throughout the place. 

Bruce only came through the front door of the penthouse more than an hour later – walked directly to her, unsurprised. There was no doubt that Alfred had called him. “Is something wrong?” He asked, and she, taken aback by his evident and misplaced concern, shook her head “You tell me, Bruce.” 

He had no answer. And she didn’t press it.

His hands were skilled and hard with her, it was different than before. His thumbs pressed deep into her skin as he pulled her up against him by the arch of her back. He lifted one leg, parting her thighs and she felt the heat of his cock move against her. She hadn’t had him inside her since she was barely more than a teenager and back then, even if it was desperate, hungry, he was gentler, tentative almost. That night he entered her in one stroke, fully, breathing against her mouth and then catching her own gasp in a biting kiss. His ministrations were rough and base – his palms hot against the underside of her legs as he held to spread her further, taking all he can in deep, shuddering thrusts. 

When it was over and they were spent, his head warm and soft on her chest, he breathed “I can hear your heart.” 

*  
“I don’t do this for the money.” She says because she feels it needs to be said, with Bruce, these things need to be said. And to his credit he doesn’t smirk or shake his head, he doesn’t say anything at all. 

She is certain, with bone-deep denigration, that he knows the how of her being roped as a CI, but he doesn’t know the reason, her reason, as to why she agreed. And if he thinks it really is about the money, then what she already fears to be true, is true – that he doesn’t know who she is at all.

“I only mean” She continues against his silence “What’s your deal with Gordon these days.” He still doesn’t answer, doesn’t give anything away. “ Shouldn’t you be in a jet somewhere, with senators falling all over themselves to hand you a napkin.” 

She sees the shadow of a smile as he looks down. Something balled taut and strained feels lighter and her throat tightens for just a moment.

When he looks at her again she still doesn’t know what he is thinking. “It’s better for me to be here.” He says. And then specifies, because the world is a decaying, cold, rock “Helping the GCPD.” 

*  
Against her better judgment, or at least against her angry, thumping heart she had decided to move into his apartment.

The first days were awkward but not completely horrible. He had whiskey in the evenings, in a darker part of the ridiculous apartment – working on whatever kept him inside at night. She watched television and irritated Alfred. Alfred, at least, felt familiar – his disdain for her started to feel like a warm, worn in coat. And there were moments, many of them, that Bruce beguiled her, overwhelmed her with an approximation of what they had before, at least as much as she was comfortable to accept from him. 

There were bad times too. There were arguments about things that felt bewilderingly trivial to her. Like when he found cash, stacked and tied with bank tape, in the back of the closet where she kept her clothes. As if it was any of his business, as if it was anything new, he clawed into her – furious and beyond the point of being talked down. But that was the blander type of discourse. The real erosion began, swiftly, when he dug into her more recent past – the years he was absent – spurred on by her involvement in the bank heist. 

She expected the collapse. She was no fool. But she didn’t appreciate the theatre of it all, as if he could, as if he had a right and as if he really needed a reason to withdraw from her.

*  
“Well, it’s not as if they don’t need it.” She quips, flatly – and she means it. The GCPD - the very few officers, who aren’t corrupt, are either full-blown alcoholics or too focused on exposing the rot inside the department than dealing with the increasingly dangerous situation outside. Jim Gordon is both of those. 

New Gotham – in all its infested glory – is unfortunately only a carnival mirror reflection of its old, dead self. 

“I don’t do jets by the way.” Bruce offers, the touch of smile turning into a smirk, almost kind. 

“Unless they’re built by Lucius with bat stickers on the windscreens, right?” She says, cautiously light, not wanting to lose the momentary connection.

But it’s gone with a stiff shrug of his shoulders, and his half-smile is fading as he looks up at her – eyes distant now, unreadable. “You should get out of Gotham. Once you’re done with…this.” 

“So he told you?” She asks, and why the hell would he not know. Why would she even think for a second he wouldn’t know.

“He didn’t have to. Three people dead. I watch the news.” His words are measured. “So how many hail Mary’s left?” 

*

A few months into living at his place he told her that they were going to have some of his friends over. 

And some Thursday evening some woman, a prosecutor, and her boss – was ushered in by a beaming Alfred.

Bruce explained as he took their coats in the foyer, as Alfred gave the woman a hug that felt almost passive aggressive in its familiarity, that he had met this Rachel first when they were both children – that their parents knew each other. Rachel came from the time long before his parents died, long before Selina. During his absence they had reconnected and since she had made an effort to keep in touch. And so had he.

That night Selina wore the dark blue dress that Alfred had laid out on the bed for her – in his infuriating way – as if she would not have had any idea how to put on anything other than black jeans, a vest and a jacket. She felt uncomfortable and didn’t bother trying to join in the conversation that sounded distantly like politics and bullshit. 

After the dinner Bruce was in a good mood, light and pulled her into the study, shutting the door to Alfred’s clearing of the dining room. He lifted her up on his desk and pushed the flimsy fabric of the dress up before hooking his arms around her thighs and pulling her against him. 

Off his unabashed display Selina made a mental note that the study was possibly the only room that Bruce did not have bugged. 

He shook the table with his thrusts until she felt the heat of his release wet between her legs. 

She was eager for him but distrusting of his earlier fondness for Rachel and after he had regained his senses, lifted her against him to kiss her neck, she told him, that she did not care to be part of any evenings with Rachel in the future. 

He took her in, his dark eyes moving over her and a realisation clearly settling in. She didn’t say anything to his look, but felt a flush of anger rise familiarly at his judgment. She turned away and tied her hair back, angry at herself for having fallen so quickly under a carnal spell after such a terrible evening. “What exactly is it that bothers you about her?” He asked, and he wasn’t kind or soft or genuinely inquisitive. He was protective. Of Rachel.

“For one thing, who the hell is she?” She bit, immediately. He was unmoved. “Rachel’s my best friend, Selina.” 

Of every hurtful thing or violent jab or yank or shove that he has ever dealt her – nothing splintered as deep, in an instant, as those words. 

And Rachel didn’t go anywhere. There were other dinners, and benefits and eventually Selina didn’t have to even make excuses not to go. Bruce went, and Rachel went as Selina stared from those horrendously awful glass walls.

*

So she doesn’t need a lesson, not from Bruce, about being a monster. “At least I am making reparations.” She says, coldly.

His eyes are on her for a long moment and she meets him with a bitter patience that she inwardly praises herself for.  
Then, and to his credit, he does seem to waiver - just for a second, before he says it, “You still take the money though.” 

Had it been anyone else, she would have laughed in their face, and in fact, she has zero qualms about taking the money as Gordon counts it out. But because it’s Bruce, it’s a knife that lets the breath out of her lungs in shame.

“As I said, it’s not about the money.” She sounds weak, so weak. She literally doesn’t know when the last time was that she had a full meal. She doesn’t know when the last time was she’d actually slept in a place where she owned more than the few items in her backpack. The wave of heavy despair that washes over her in that moment, feels just at once all too much and she readies her backpack, looking down and takes a step back. “Anyway I should go if there’s nothing else.”

She looks up and she sees it there – the regret, the worried frown. And it makes the sadness all the more uncomfortable. And honestly – fuck him for it.

“Is that it? I have to get out of here.”

“I hope you’re not still in the same place.” He ignores her and is serious. It is just like him to change gears on her in a way that is absolutely maddening, and just like that she is reeled into an argument “No.” She whips at him “I’m at the Royal Cunningham Luxury Lifestyle Apartments, Bruce. With all this money I’m making.” His gaze darkens and he shakes his head, in that way that makes her want to shoot him. “You don’t have to live this way, is all I meant, Selina.” 

Sometimes he is still just a little boy. And when he is, just like this, so dangerously misguided, she knows that she will never ever be able to wash him away, shake him, forget him. She also knows that she has known that for years. And she wonders, not for the first time, and idly – as if it were not completely insane - if it is the same for him with her. 

Things are different when you have means, if you don’t have to think about every single thing you stand to lose. 

*

A few days before she left, tearing down the walls as she did, she sat alone on that disgustingly big white block of a bed. Bruce had been out at the office, or at a meeting, or on a plane or in Switzerland or whatever. And staring at the sprawl of New Gotham below – the filth of the narrows against the neon of the new town square, against the glare of the Wayne Enterprises sign – she had felt like a very small moth blindly fluttering into a forest fire.

*

“If you get one of these of your own…” He indicates to the phone with his head, a small gesture – so guarded, clipped and pointlessly hopeful that it instantly reminds her of his teenage self “I could call you.”

Bruce is a world on fire. And he has no idea.

“Yeah but you shouldn’t.” She says. And it is painful, but it is true – probably the truest thing she’ll admit out loud.

*  
When she was nineteen she stood on the withering balcony of a building that is no longer there. Bruce had left without a word – disappeared into the ozone, shooting further and further into a future that did not include her. 

*  
Now he sighs, a real sigh, not irritated or angry – the sigh of someone who is struggling up the mountain, almost ready to give up.  
“You could come back.” He says and it sounds like a crisp, clean olive branch extending.

There are no more olive branches, though.

“See you around, Bruce.” She says, lifting her hoodie over her hair and tightening the jacket around her shoulders against the cold. He doesn’t say anything and she can feel his eyes on her as she leaves.


End file.
